


Suffering Becomes Her

by germanic



Series: Walon Vau: A Character Study [1]
Category: Star Wars: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss
Genre: Gen, personal speculations and headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/germanic/pseuds/germanic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a reason he never spoke of his childhood to Kal Skirata.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kradeelav](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kradeelav/gifts).



> An attempt at writing a history for Walon Vau.

She moved with poise, grace, everything befitting her station. Her head was bowed, her gaze kept on the ground. Golden eyes, her husband had said, had first commented on when he saw her, when they had been arranged to be married. He had called them beautiful, exotic, in those moments. His own had been a dark brown, almost black, almost coal-like.

Perhaps that should have been a warning.

Their first child had her eyes. He had not called them beautiful then, rather he had frowned and had a look of disapproval etched into his features--one that would never quite leave. She had held the little boy, trying to wrap her tongue around the name that he had been given. Walon. It wasn't her first choice, but she accepted it, tried to infuse it with affection, make it something wonderful.

The boy would be their only child.

She struggled to keep another, had winced when he shouted, had not cried, not then, not yet. While he turned and took their son, keeping him from her, starting to train their son, wanting to make him into a good heir--because that was his only chance--she turned to religious texts, desperately seeking an answer.

Her son had tutors, had his father, was kept from her. She became a distant figure, left to her texts, only able to see him in the hours when he fell asleep. She would come then, sitting at his bedside, reading books to him, running her fingers through his hair, wanting back her son.

She kept company with the other women, did what she was supposed to. She played her part, she had given her husband an heir--if it it was but one--and she served as the perfect partner, always smiling and never speaking when he took her to the celebrations. She would simply hold onto his arm, thinking back to her boy kept in the company of tutors and caretakers.

She lost her smile when the bruises appeared.

In-between reading passages, trying to understand what had caused everything to happen, finding refuge in the pages of ancient texts, she heard it and left her place. He had towered over her son, berating him, his face red, so much hate in him. When he had gone, she ran to her boy, kneeling before him, searching his eyes, trying to understand what had been done. She treated his wounds, saw him put to bed, his tutors dismissed, when she confronted her husband and met his retort.

Powder hid the blemishes and it did well to hide discoloring.

She was told that it was all part of a better plan, that he was justified, that he was right. She searched the texts, the page blotted by small stains; all crying. As the years carried on, it only getting worse--there were scars now on him, on her boy--she delved into reading everything that the world had to offer on religion, using it to steady herself. They provided some answers, gave some reassurances. There was an answer there, something more than simply a violent husband.

It called it a matter of saving the soul, of keeping the soul humble. It made there seem to be reason, something that was able to be understood. She continued to treat her son's wounds, try to give him what love she could, until her husband called for an end of that.

He told her she was the cause of her son's failures, in the same breath telling their son that he was always destined to be a failure. She was ordered to leave their son's care to him, that he would see that their son was a successful man, that he would see their son into the navy.

And she stepped back, because that was what was expected of her, because that was what she had been taught to do. She moved in silence, often considering the words of religious text, holding to them as the only sort of truth.

At the parties they attended, when their son was older, beginning to make his impression on the older men who had been born and taught to be naval officers, she remained quiet, always at her husband's side, listening to them talk about her son. She heard them compliment her son's talents, say that he looked like her--it had been more than the eyes, he had not quite inherited his father's face, his worn, displaced features--and she thanked them. She never missed the scowl that crossed his face, the sense of displeasure that coursed through his veins, felt when he tightened his grip on her hand.

And, yet, he never noticed the way she winced, how she bowed her head, when he told the men who would decide her son's fate on entrance into the academy with stories of how he was a disobedient man, insolent through and through.

She had not been surprised when she was told that Walon would not be part of the navy, that he had failed to be accepted, that the men had decided against it. She had been waiting, leaving her book open, having a quote in mind for Walon that could be of some kind of comfort.

She had heard his encounter with his father, saw the end of it, saw him run, saw him go. She had called for him, for her little boy, the one who had her eyes. She had a hand raised to her mouth, hiding her trembling lip when he did not look back, when he simply went on, going far beyond her reach once again.

In grace, she moved, head bowed. Her son was talked about everywhere, insulted, cursed. They never stopped to consider his father, simply taking his father's words for it. They cited her son for breaking her heart, proving him worth even less consideration. The inheritance that had been bound for her son, the wealth that had made the count such a viable choice for her spouse, was promised to his nephew.

It was as though her son had never existed in the years following, as though it had all been some kind of dream, that she had imagined having a boy. Though, he had rarely been hers, always kept from her, she kept from him.

He lingered as faint memories, as a child with dark hair, a boy she had held, always praising, seeing as a single blessing. One live child, her little boy, her son.

She retreated further into her studies, trying to find the reason, struggling to find reason. The texts that had been comforting, had brought stability, gave her nothing now. Hollow words and half-hearted promises of a better life. It carried all the same finesse as how her parents had informed her of her marriage. Oh there would be suffering in the beginning, awkward feelings and disenchantment, but in the end, everything would work out. She would be happy in the end.

And, yet, that happiness never came.


	2. Chapter 2

His mother had loved him.

She had told him so as she spread the cream over his wounds, always fresh, always new, never seeming to heal properly. She had told him she had loved him, that he was a blessing.

He had asked why she did not stop his father, why she simply stood there, why she came in after the blows were delivered and he had writhed in pain. She had tried to soothe him, tell him that their religion explained it all, quoted from the religious texts and told him it would save his soul.

That this was his father's love, that his father did not want to do this, but that it would save him, that it would keep him in good graces, that it would save him.

"I love you and want the best for you."

He was eight-years-old and struggling to believe her with each passing year. The other boys he saw, they did not carry scars like his, hide the bruises like he did. Their fathers gave them affection, told them they did well. But his mother's answer was that those fathers did not love their sons, not like his father did. They gave them easy lives, leaving their children to struggle after death.

His mother said she loved him.

She would say this when he voiced his concerns, when she had to stitch a wound closed for him for the gash was far too wide and would not heal on its own. His mother's small hands had trembled as she pulled the needle, tightening the thread. He had shuddered, never speaking out. He had been ten.

He remembered her lips pursed, the beginnings of tears in her eyes--the eyes that he shared, her golden eyes--and pausing to regain control of her self. Telling him stories of the ancients, the stories that his mother believed without a doubt.

"This will save your soul."

His mother swore she loved him.

His mother's love would not protect him. This was proven time and time again through the marks on his skin, the ones that were raised and the others that were discolored, the parts where his skin bubbled, never looking quite right. It was in the jagged lines that made him look like a puzzle reassembled but never whole.

Each mark that his mother kissed, seeing that it was healed, never able to give him access to anything that would prevent the scarring.

One evening he had seen his father confront his mother, in her thin fingers the jars of ointments she used on his wounds, to ease the stinging, to numb the pain. He had watched the jars shatter against the floor when his father had yelled at her, telling her that she was ruining what he intended to do by making his son's pain go away.

He had watched her cry, watched her return to her religious texts, trying to find the answer to all of this there.

His mother had told him that she loved him.

When his father had moved to hit him, he had not flinched, stood his ground and did not cry. His father had looked at his son with surprise, still so much a boy that it was assumed that he would cry, while the child had not seemed phased.

"I do not fear you."

For his insolence, he was given a scar that lingered over his heart.

It was one that his mother never saw for his father bade her to stop treating their son. And she had, reluctantly watching him from a distance, her head always bowed. His father had broken her, but he would not break him.

He took this to heart, repeating it through the years. He would remain unbroken, hold onto his soul, forever be something that his father could not destroy. He held onto this, looking forward to the academy.

He saw less and less of his mother. As he was heir, it was expected, and she became a phantom in his life. The same woman he could remember holding him, singing to him, telling stories to him, kissing his brow. The same woman who always daily told him that she loved him, faded into the background, a ghastly figure in gray who was always three steps behind his father, her head bowed, once beautiful look lost in an eternal melancholy. Vibrant gold eyes had lost their gleam, had sunken back, rimmed by red.

His mother loved him.

On the day he was told he would never be part of the academy, on the day he had hit his own father and had run, he had not seen her, could not imagine seeing her. He did not know what his mother would think, what disappointment would be in her face, in her eyes, all of it directed at him this time. He could not face that and he did not look back, even when he heard her voice call his name.

He had simply charged forward, looking at his new life.

She was the only reason he read about his homeworld. In his years on the run, he had always listened to the reports, straining to hear her name. He had remembered the days when she had been called so beautiful, that at all the parties and dinners, his father would always be complimented on his lovely wife. She had a beautiful smile that he had seen in holos, that he had kept close to him, that he had left when he ran away.

He had been with the Mandalorians when he heard, stopping in place, her name barely a mention on the reports. She had died peacefully, they said, in her sleep. The count was in mourning, the blow coming hard.

With the blessings of his Mandalorian mentor, he went home, stepping foot on grounds that he had once swore to never touch again. He stood amongst the masses, watching her funeral, a hood drawn to hide his face, a cloak over his armor. He saw his father move slowly ahead, never breaking stride, not looking like a mourning husband.

And when he saw his mother's body pass, his knees had buckled. He saw a glimpse of his mother, still beautiful in death but thin, looking so tired. He heard the people around him mumble when she passed, some whispering prayers, other saying their last goodbyes.

He did not cry, too weathered and worn by the years he had been gone. And, yet, the woman standing beside him almost drove him to reaction, to scream at her or to cry, he could not quite decide.

"I don't think she ever recovered after her son left. Broke her heart."

He returned to Mandalore after that, leaving after the ceremony concluded, not waiting to see if anyone recognized him. He simply needed to be away, to be somewhere else. On Mandalore, Mird curled against him, warm body pressed against him when he sat on the floor, trying to understand how he felt, trying to temper himself.

His mother was the only one who loved him.


End file.
